


Treading Slowly

by AHLICE



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Multi, danielle - Freeform, perrie - Freeform, some tw may apply
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-06-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 03:49:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/819620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AHLICE/pseuds/AHLICE
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>You’re in love</i>, Zayn wants to say. <i>You’re in love so deep that the only way out is heartbreak</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> woohoo! another big fic project i'd like to finish successfully. it's going strong so far and i hope it continues that way!
> 
> these AU memes are slightly used, but fixed around to my liking: 
> 
> [xxx](http://onedirectionaumeme.tumblr.com/post/35215582984/au-meme-the-secret-relationship-between-the) and [xxx](http://woozarry.tumblr.com/post/36373438425/au-meme-zayn-is-your-english-teacher-and-you-fall)
> 
> there's another, but i feel like it's a spoiler so i decided not to add it. until later.
> 
> [[ although there are real places and settings and businesses used in this fic, it's still an Alternate Universe, so certain things have been fiddled with to benefit the plot ]]

When Louis first shared his photo albums with Zayn (which was more like an ‘accidental finding’ than a ‘here, wanna see this album full of pointless pictures?’), Zayn honestly hadn’t expected to see hundreds and hundreds of little snapshots into Harry Styles’ life, all there and stuffed into the plastic coverings on each thick page. But there they were, fluttering down onto the clean, just-washed carpet of Louis’ bedroom floor. Some were of his bare feet as he stood on what looked like the white and gray tiles of the kitchen; others were pretty insignificant, like the sharp outline of his jaw as he sat, slouched, on the living room couch, or his wide, broad back as he bent over the dining room table to snatch up what looked like magazines, or his full, pink lips as they parted, tongue sticking out slightly, making way for an onslaught of food just barely there, and then some of messy curls, his nose, one green, sparkly eye, and a thin eyebrow arched.  
  
Needless to say, Zayn found it a bit creepy and, overall, very unusual. It’s just that he was so accustomed to seeing the tabloids with Harry’s name in big, bold print, making rumors about the next bird he’s going to get in bed and speculation about what he was doing and with _who_. It’s natural — Harry Styles is famous. A young, vibrant model climbing up the charts and taking London (and soon the _world_ ) in his large, slender hands.  
  
But the album — _these_ albums — made Zayn see Harry in another light. He barely knew the lad, if catching short glimpses of him entering and leaving his and Louis’ flat during the wee bits of the morning or the late, sleepy evenings during Louis’ famous movie and dinner nights meant being well acquainted with him; though seeing all these snapshots, these bits and pieces that can probably be put together and scrambled around until they make a full Photo Harry Styles, made Zayn relate to Harry on a real personal level. A level that Louis Tomlinson sees when he gets up every morning to make a cuppa and catches sight of Harry lounging on the couch, or frying up something over the range.  
  
Zayn can’t help but think over this as he drives down the road and towards the University of London. There must be something about photography, he says to himself, that makes you closer to not only the people around you, but the world. It’s like a deeper level of understanding, of comprehension, that not even the point on his ballpoint pen can grasp as words are written down onto paper. Because Louis doesn’t have to _imagine_ and _construct_ his surroundings when he lifts that camera to his eye and presses a thumb on the shutter; he can look down at that fluorescent screen and see it, hold it in his hands, pin it up on his bedroom tackboard and look back over it as quickly as he brushes past and remember the moment forever.  
  
Louis must feel unimaginably close to Harry. While everyone else sees plastered, white smiles and constructed personalities built by companies and managements and studios and laughs gathered and saved only for thousands of anticipating, calculating eyes, Louis sees the most vulnerable of Harry, the weakest and most innocent breaths. And there’s something absolutely beautiful about someone allowing another easy access to all of this — there’s a fucking _library_ of Harry Styles and no one knows about it but a selected, trusted few.  
  
By the time Zayn gets down Russell Square and turns into the Institute of English Studies at the uni, Zayn’s mind has gone from Louis’ secret Harry library and onto more important things: his first lecture of the semester. He has no clue what kind of students will be in his class, but he hopes to God that they’re more interactive than last years’. He has a history of starting off every school year with his famous speech of _What is Writing?_. To him, it’s supposed to be entrancing and enthralling and everyone’s supposed to really _feel_ it. But, so far, no such luck.  
  
He’s still waiting for it.  
  
Zayn gets into the front office and says his usual hellos to the older woman sitting there. They fawn, smile so hard he’s afraid their faces will crack, and he’s lugging his suitcase and brown trench coat up the main stairs and down a carpeted, quiet hallway, rooms to classrooms on each side of him. He’s usually one of the first lectures of the day, so the silence is expected and very much appreciated, it being so early in the goddamn morning. But teaching waits for no man, and if Zayn has to get up at four in the morning instead of five, he will in a heartbeat.  
  
He opens the door to his room and steps in, a slap of cold air hitting him in the face. The room is as it usually is: small, tidy, with a rectangular whiteboard in the front, three small windows lining the left wall, and seven rows of desks with white squares attached to it for lying books and writing notes. There is a long, potted tree sitting in the corner closest to Zayn’s office desk and chair, which he thought would give the white, boring class more of a sophisticated, ‘Englishy’ feel to it all.  
  
'Englishy' is a word Zayn’s been honestly been thinking about copyrighting. He’ll get back to that later.  
  
He drapes his coat over the back of his leather office chair, sets his suitcase on the smooth, oak surface of his desk, and unlatches and opens it to get all of his manilla folders, textbooks, and notebooks from inside. He’s even tucked a few novellas that he knows he won’t introduce until near the middle of the semester, but was too excited this morning that he had to take them along for the ride anyway. Zayn gives _Frankenstein_ a small little smile, running the palm of his hand over the water-damaged, crumpling cover and shakes his head, promising himself that he’ll order a new one before they get to it.  
  
It takes him about forty minutes to get all of his belongings settled inside the drawers, in perfect ninety degree angles on his desk, and under it, once again in a ninety degree angle. He’s rolling the sleeves of his knitted, maroon sweater over the sleeves of his button down dress shirt when his first students start entering the classroom, chatting softly and mugs of coffee in many of their hands.  
  
Zayn gives them short, jerky nods as they enter, clasping his hands at his front and slowly walking back and forth in front of his desk, allowing everyone time to get their things out and their backpacks in a safe place where no one will trip over them. There are a lot of young students this time; Zayn has always felt a little awkward about lecturing people who’re practically his age, and is always pleasantly surprised to find how much respect they give him. Though, he guesses that’s to be expected, especially in an university.  
  
There are about thirty students in his class by the time it’s twenty past time for his lecture. He closes the door and approaches the front of the class, hands still clasped and arms bent at the elbows. “Hello,” he says loudly, and that’s indication enough for everyone to quiet down and turn to give him well-deserved attention.  
  
Zayn gives a short pause, spinning casually on the heel of his right foot to walk the slow length of the front of the class again. “Now tell me,” he looks up at everyone and tries to stare each person in the eye. “What, exactly, is writing?”  


 

❤♡❤♡❤♡

  
  
Lunch break is at one p.m., and Zayn manages to get out of his class by one twenty five, having to answer a million questions by his surprisingly interactive students during his second lecture of the day. Liam comes by to pick him up (a way for them to save gas money while living in the same Camden flat together), and they drive off towards Rays Pizza, a pizzeria not too far off from Zayn’s department.  
  
“And how was class, Mr. Malik?” Liam asks, a teasing hint to his deep voice, as he keeps his large brown eyes on the road ahead of him. “As Englishy as you thought it’d be, I hope?”  
  
Zayn thinks it over, and then nods, thick eyebrows raising as if he’s surprised at how well everything went. And he is — this semester’s classes are looking very, very promising. “Actually, yeah,” he says. “Very, very . . . Englishy.”  
  
The store isn’t crowded just yet, which gives Liam and Zayn time to order what they want at the cashier and get situated at a table by the front windows. There are a lot of students with their backpacks still on walking or skating or biking down and up the road, earbuds in most ears. Liam sips his coke while Zayn fiddles with his bottle of water, leaning back in the hard plastic seat and letting out a relaxed sigh. Only one day of classes and he’s already exhausted.  
  
“Today’s been so busy,” Liam says finally, as if reading Zayn’s mind. He sits up proper and tugs at his tie; this is when Zayn finally notices that Liam’s dressed all well in a tux and crisp trousers with dark leather shoes. Zayn looks at him, nodding, as Liam continues with, “I spent all fucking morning helping this bloke and his wife find a home over in Islington. Can you believe that out of the probably about _fifty_ homes I showed the lot, they picked _none_?” Liam rubs at the stress wrinkles forming on his forehead and sits back in his seat again, staring absently out the window with a scowl. “And I was thinkin’, what a bloody waste of my time.”  
  
Zayn whistles his sympathy. “When’d you get done with ‘em? Just now?”  
  
“About an hour ago, actually.”  
  
Another whistle of sympathy.  
  
Their half cheese half mushroom and pepperoni pizza finally arrives, and they’re both quick to dig in. Zayn doesn’t realize how hungry he really is until he gets the first cheesy, scorching bite into his mouth and chews as fast as he can without it burning his tongue or gums. His stomach does a flip, growling for more, and he immediately obeys, just stuffing his face with slice after slice of his half.  
  
Liam’s on his second slice while Zayn’s on his fourth when Liam raises a greasy finger and hums as if he has something to say. Zayn looks up from his slouched position to give Liam a small portion of his attention, the remaining percentage on how fucking good his cheese pizza tastes, even after so many previous slices.  
  
“That reminds me,” Liam says through a mouthful. “Louis’ having a dinner at his house on Friday. Seven p.m., he says.”  
  
Zayn’s chewing slows. “What’s the occasion this time?”  
  
“Something about showing off his ‘brilliant cooking skills’.” Liam has to give a laugh at this. “Last time I ate his undercooked meat I was on the loo for _hours_.” His chuckle goes from genuine, to strained, to weak, and then it’s completely gone; his eyebrows furrow as if he’s trying to erase the memory from his mind for good.  
  
Of course, Zayn has to think. Another way for Louis to show what Harry has been teaching him during the younger lad’s days off from modeling and traveling across all of Europe. It’s both sickening and a little sweet, how Louis is open to learn so much if Harry’s the one showing it to him; and how that flat is meant for two people when more often than not Harry isn’t even there.  
  
So then maybe that Harry library of photos and snapshots just isn’t for simple enjoyment. Maybe it’s making up for that empty bedroom down the hall, and the mornings spent making one cuppa instead of two. Maybe there’s much more to Louis and his inner workings than he’s willing to give — and Zayn’s willing to find.  
  
“Okay, sure,” Zayn says, shrugging. “I don’t have any lectures then, anyway.” He picks up his water bottle, uncapping it to take a few long gulps, desperate to get rid of the greasy feel in his throat. “Let’s just hope the meat is cooked this time, yeah?”  


 

❤♡❤♡❤♡

  
  
There’s something about being surrounded by hundreds, _thousands_ of people and still feeling alone, Zayn has to think. There are masterpieces in his bookshelf that makes him feel more complete, less isolated, and that has a lot to say about how the mentality and behaviors are of residents around him and less about how Zayn has always been friends with books, even from his childhood years.  
  
But books, he realizes while having a midnight chat by himself, don’t cheat you, turn on you, ditch you and then come back days or months later begging for forgiveness. It’s safe to say that you can fall in love with a book and it’ll be something you’ll never regret; loving the words on a page is safe, easy, and all the more beautiful to Zayn than falling in love with any fleeting, temporary ‘nother. While everyone someday dies, a thought, an idea, a _conception_ is forever — and there are pages and pages full of ideas, thoughts, conceptions that can outgrow and outlove any individual.  
  
Zayn enjoys the idea of forever. Of permanence. Of deciding on something or choosing something that’ll never be taken back or reversed. Maybe that’s why there are tattoos on his arms and pens stacked in the drawer of his study desk; maybe that’s why he’s _single_. And, oh boy, that’s a depressing thought, no matter how much Zayn’s in love with constants and ongoings.  
  
It doesn’t help that Liam’s a pissy little enabler; the most frequent thing that slips from the prat’s plush lips is, “We’re better off alone.” But — alone? Loneliness? There’s no piece of literature that Zayn’s read that gives him the proper definition for loneliness. No novel has told him that the cure for humankind’s plague is to be cast off, a broken fragment dangling from the bigger picture of busy city streets and crowded train stations. Because those temporary brushes of skin against skin, chafed knuckles to smooth, rounded ones, a heavy kiss to wet, curling lips can be the only shot, the only vaccination.  
  
Romeo and Juliet died, yes, but they passed away together, with this single little belief that in death there’s happiness. They wanted to be forever connected; they wanted their freedom to see another day where they looked off to the right in the dawn and found their lover waiting for them, only inches away. Loneliness didn’t cure them — it was longing that did.  
  
Zayn often feels like a Gatsby, standing at the edge of his mansion and looking at that green light across the waters, where the hypothetical Daisy awaits her savior from a crumbling marriage. He doesn’t want to be an Amory, crying to the world, “I know myself, and that is all —” And Zayn can sit there, in the darkness of the flat living room, and think of a million different metaphors and cliches to prove his point, but he rathers doing something about it rather than submitting to Liam’s incorrect prophecies about love and how and why the world tilts on its axis.  
  
He stares absently at his Contemporary Writing textbook for a while before scratching at his scruffy beard and getting up to get himself some tea.  
  
He hates midnight chats.  


 

❤♡❤♡❤♡

  
  
For once in a fucking blue moon Mr. Harry Styles himself is there when Zayn gets to the flat that friday night, having driven through a hell of traffic through Camden and down road A400 to arrive in pretty much one piece. Harry opens the front door for him, dressed in a sleeveless jean jacket with a brown and red tribal print jacket underneath and dark wash skinny jeans clinging to his long, slender legs. His hair, glistening under the bright foyer lights, is messy and tousled in that way that Zayn’s read in tabloids ‘ _makes the cheeky lad irresistible_ ’.  
  
“Take off your shoes, mate,” Harry says in a low, raspy voice, and then turns and leaves Zayn standing there, disappearing in the kitchen.  
  
The place smells of frying meat, pasta, sauce, and foreboding late night toilet marathons — or maybe Zayn’s just imagining that last part.  
  
Zayn kicks off his sandals, listening to Louis’ loud shrieking while walking into the low-roofed, well-lit living room. The place is clean, with a fragile glass and easily-dirtied white theme; the couches are white, the coffee table glass, the TV a shiny, sleek white, and the carpet is as white as its ever been. The flat looks, pretty much, flawless. Zayn has to wonder if this is Harry’s doing, or maybe Louis barely sleeps there since Harry’s mostly gone, so the place never has a chance to get dirty.  
  
Liam is already draped over the couch, long done with working at Foxton real estate, and Louis’ somewhere in the wide, also white-themed kitchen with Harry. Zayn knows this because he can smell something beginning to burn and the constant shutter-clicks of a camera from that direction. Everything is, so far, just as he expected it to be.  
  
Zayn lowers on the couch next to Liam, instantly sinking into the soft, foam like cushions, and pats his broad shoulder. “Hey,” he says, tilting his chin up slightly in a greeting. “Is the cooking anywhere close to being finished?”  
  
Liam scowls at the marathon of some vapid reality show, coming over with the horrible memories of Louis’ past dinner, and then finally looks at Zayn to shake his head at him. “No — I think Louis said it’ll be done in ten minutes, just about. He’s going to have us set the ta —”  
  
“Okay,” Louis announces loudly, clapping his hands together while leaving the kitchen to get Zayn and Liam’s attention. He’s wearing an orange beanie over his head, fringe sticking out, that looks dangerously like Harry’s one back when they went to Hawaii last summer. “Get up, lads, time to set the dining table! I cook, you set; come on!”  
  
Apparently Liam doesn’t get up fast enough — not fast enough for Louis’ liking, that is — so Louis physically grabs Liam’s forearm and tugs him, albeit being the weaker of the two where there arms are considered. “I’m coming, I’m coming!” Zayn overhears Liam groaning as he enters the dining room, picking up the stacked plates and setting them carefully down on each placemat.  
  
Harry meets him in there, placing the containers of Louis’ completed foods in the center, next to the forks, knives, and napkins. Zayn feels like it’ll make it super awkward if he doesn’t say anything to the guy, and this has always been kind of awkward on Zayn’s part, anyway, after he saw all those albums full of just shots and shots and shots of Harry; is it weird to start a conversation by telling a guy you barely know that you now know where most of his moles are? And how his cheeks are flushed pink when he wakes up in the morning?  
  
Yeah, yeah — that’ll definitely be weird.  
  
“So,” Zayn begins, going for the blasé approach instead. “Heard you fucked five women last Saturday. How’d that go?” He laughs nervously, hands now working on their own to get the table set.  
  
Harry waits for Louis’ playful shrill to temporarily cease before giving Zayn a troubled look (that another bad way to start a conversation, maybe?) and shaking his head. “The tabloids are hell, aren’t they?” He pauses, blinking slowly at a closed pot full of fried chicken, and then shakes his head again. “I don’t even have enough stamina for that.”  
  
Zayn’s not sure if he’s supposed to hear that last bit, so he pretends he doesn’t and greets Liam and Louis with a, “Thanks for helping out, mates; your banter was really helpful,” as they stumble in, faces red and breaths heavy from previous roughhousing. They just shoot him a look while taking a seat, and Harry gives a short laugh at that, goofy smile spreading on his face when he notices how Louis’ (or Harry’s?) beanie is halfway off his messy head.  
  
As soon as they sit down, Louis has to clap his hands together again, a successful attempt at getting the three boys’ attention. “We have to pray before eating, lads,” Louis tells them, looking playfully from one eye to the next. But then he raises his hands for Zayn, who’s on his left, and Harry, who’s on his right, to hold them, and suddenly this feels serious.  
  
So everyone does as they’re told, bowing their heads and closing their eyes, and they pray. When they’re done, Harry is the first person to serve himself, faster at snatching up the wooden spoons and ladles than the rest of them. He then passes the containers on to Louis, who passes it to Zayn when he’s done, who passes it to Liam when he’s done, too.  
  
“So,” Louis begins with a little faux pep. “How was everyone’s day?” He looks over to Liam. “How about you first, Li?”  
  
Liam looks up from the hopefully-well-cooked chicken on his plate and gives him a strained smile. “My day depends on how good this chi —”  
  
“Good, good,” Louis sniffs, looking over to Zayn next. “And yours?” He places a hand on the small of Zayn’s back and watches with both admiration and anticipation as the younger lad chews at his mouthful of pasta. “And how about you, love? How’s the food?”  
  
Just as Zayn is about to answer, he bites down into something extremely hard and not thoroughly cooked well; consequently, his smile twists unpleasantly and his eyebrows lower above honey amber eyes. “Great,” he squeaks weakly.  
  
Louis’ smile quickly falls and he turns away from Zayn, removing his hand from the small of his back. “Well — I slave over a hot stove and what do I get? A slap in the face. Nice to know, nice to know.” He’s making a face, but his voice is hinting on playful.  
  
“Actually,” Harry starts from where he’s sitting. “ _I_ like your coo — ”  
  
“That’s nice, Harold.” Louis viciously rips off a chunk of meat from his chicken bone, but smiles at Harry to tell him he was just joking. Harry smiles back, plays with his curly fringe, and then continues to eat the dangerously uncooked pasta sitting on his plate.  
  
Harry and Louis are the only victorious ones at finishing their food. Liam’s already making constipated faces, dreadfully awaiting the moment when his stomach begs him to rush to the loo, and Zayn’s own stomach feels restless, unsettled, like it’s also waiting for something bad to happen. But he acts as if nothing’s going on, thanks Louis for the meal, and begins to unset the table.  
  
Liam, Zayn, and Harry are all clearing the dining room when Louis leaves and comes back with his nice, probably-a-lot-of-money camera, raising it to eye level and snapping pictures of all of them working. “Just for some memories,” Louis tells them when Zayn shoots him a self-conscious grimace. “Act like I’m not even here.”  
  
“I’m not good at that like Harry over here is,” Zayn says, motioning with a free hand as Harry casually carries some plates back into the kitchen. “When a camera’s obviously in the room I get really nervous.”  
  
“And I’m about five minutes away from barfing,” Liam mutters from the end of the table, that pained expression still on his face. “You’re the only person who’s food makes me feel this way, Lou. Is that a good thing, or ma —”  
  
“Shush, man, and work!” Louis shouts from behind his camera. Liam groans in an exaggerated manner, and Louis takes a shot of that, too. “I’ll publish the most embarrassing ones on the internet if you keep complaining about my brilliant dinner.”  
  
“Oh, _God_ , no, spare me —”  
  
“Then work!”  
  
By ten p.m., everything is cleaned up and Zayn is getting ready to leave, exhausted from the long day. “Thanks guys, but I’m off,” he says to all three boys sharing the couch. He turns to look at Harry and how his head of hair is resting on Louis’ shoulder. “Nice seeing you again, Harry.”  
  
Harry waves one big hand at him, smiling briefly. “Bye.”  
  
“Oh — wait!” Louis says suddenly, jumping up and knocking Harry down and onto Liam’s lap instead. He raises an index finger at Zayn, who has his left sandal halfway on and is staring at him like a deer in headlights, and rushes into the dining room, almost immediately returning with his camera. “One more. Y’know, for memories.”  
  
“So many memories, huh?” Zayn grumbles, kicking off his shoes and padding back into the living room to fill the spot between Harry and Liam, since Harry has long sat up from Liam’s tense lap and is now looking curiously at Louis. “You’re just full of memories, man.”  
  
“Of course,” Louis answers instantly, voice straightening out to a serious tone. “Memories will be all we have once the moment’s passed.” He stands in front of the TV and raises the camera to his face while his free hand waves at Liam, his small wrist flicking. “Wake up and sit proper, won’t you? I want this to be a happy memory; not one of you making that stupid face.”  
  
“I think m’stomach hurts —”  
  
“Then _pretend_ , you arse! Don’t botch this up!” Louis flicks his wrist at him again. “Now, come on!” He keeps antagonizing until Liam finally does what he wants, sitting up straight and smiling to the best of his abilities.  
  
“The day I get bad diarrhea,” Liam says through a false, toothy grin. “A photo album by Louis Tomlinson.”  
  
By the time Zayn has one arm around Harry, another around Liam, and is smiling big at the camera, he starts to kind of understand why Louis is so desperate to get _everything_ on camera, no matter the circumstance. Zayn never really thought about all the memories that he can never, ever relive again no matter what he does or says, and now that Louis has brought it to his mind he can’t help but miss all of the undocumented firsts and seconds and occasional thirds.  
  
“Be sure to send me these pictures when you’re done, mate,” Zayn tells him after the loud shutter-click breaks the silence.  
  
“Sure,” Louis says, lowering the camera to look at his handiwork. When he’s satisfied, he peers up at the three boys and smiles with straight teeth. “ _And_ we’re done!”  


 

❤♡❤♡❤♡

  
  
Zayn feels surreal. Everything feels both way too important and much too unimportant at once, and when he’s staring down at his trembling fingers’s when he can really feel it. With all these silly thoughts swarming his head, he knows he shouldn’t smoke weed, but he does occasionally anyway, and the things he thinks just become that much faraway and a little more difficult to grasp. He thinks about how plants are green because of biology, and chemistry, too, and just how silly it is that Harry is seen with a new woman every week and how everyone will reprimand the long-legged, bright-eyed model about it when it’s none of their business, and just how silly it is that Louis only has photos of a to-be instead of the real person right in front of him, and how Liam has had his heart broken so many times that he thinks he’s better off without that emotional connection anymore.  
  
But what about himself? Zayn never thinks much about his own faults when he’s lying there, smoke in the air and his mind foggy. He’ll laugh about everyone else’s, but when it comes time to laugh at himself he can’t seem to do it. Maybe it’s his own stupid pride talking, or maybe he’s just secretly narcissistic and he subconsciously believes he’s flawless.  
  
Either way, he does it, and Zayn knows he needs to be more open about challenging himself. He thinks maybe writing in a journal or writing a book will help him convey that; then he frowns, wondering when he’ll ever be able to make time for journals or book writing. There really isn’t any time left for him to do that rubbish, but he has this dying urge to do it anyway. To have his life story accessible and ready to look back on like Louis does with his cameras and photos and albums and Harry library.  
  
Zayn decides it’s a bad idea to start when he’s high, so he goes straight to bed and prays that Saturday will treat him kindly.


	2. T R E A D I N G ♡ S L O W L Y

  As expected, Saturday passes like nothing, Liam having gone off to work at that real estate place, Harry back in the limelight of paparazzi and flashing lights, and Louis down at London’s uni, taking care of some business in the Art department — or some rubbish like that. Then that leaves Danny and Ant, but they’re off in Manchester doing who knows fucking _what_ , leaving Zayn with his bookshelf full of novels, tea, and other little mundane duties like shaving, styling his hair, and picking out random outfits to wear either to class or just out in public.  
  
He thinks back over his high-induced book-writing thought, stares at the empty journal he has in his room after choosing his final outfit for next week, flips through the blank pages to get a whiff of the new-journal smell, and then decides he won’t write. Not yet. He wants to feel completely and utterly inspired when he does; which is what leads him to reading some of his favorite novels — just to fill his mind with something to start it off.  
  
Then time ticks into nine, ten p.m. and Liam still isn’t back; he receives a text by ten twenty two from the arse, telling him that he stopped over at a ‘friends’ house and will be home tomorrow morning. A.K.A., Liam is fucking around with one of his fuck buddies and went to their place instead to prevent having an awkward run in with Zayn. Which, actually, is greatly appreciated, but Zayn feels a little guilty about Liam having to resort to that just to keep a safe and happy environment in their shared flat.  
  
He shoves his book back into its place, in alphabetical by last name, and turns his head from where he’s sitting, on the floor of his bedroom, at the line of outfits displayed across his spread, clean mattress. Then he lowers his gaze back to his cell, staring at the text on the screen. His mind suddenly starts running ahead of him and, before he knows it, he’s texting Liam that he can bring the bird over to the flat; he’s gonna go out.  
  
Liam’s response is an obviously surprised ‘ _oh? really? then b out in 10 im heading over dere now_ ’. As soon as Zayn texts back an _okay_ , he leaps into action, knowing he has only a few short minutes to look presentable for London’s nightlife. He gets kind of excited as he snatches up his favorite navy blue, window pane sports jacket — the one his mum bought and shipped to him for well over ninety nine pounds, and he practically cried over it — and some loose blue jeans with a couple of holes that were really made by a mistake, but look purposeful. He wears a simple gray tee shirt underneath it, just incase he gets sweaty from walking or dancing (most likely walking; he’s not that outgoing while sober), slips on some leather boots, and is out the house just as Liam’s familiar car pulls into the nearby parking lot.  
  
He immediately ducks in the darkness of the cold, windy outdoors, making sure Liam and whoever is in the car doesn’t catch sight of him, and stuffs his cell and wallet in his pocket before he’s speed-walking to his car, opening the driver’s seat door as quietly as he can.  
  
Zayn can’t see the girl, but when she gets out of Liam’s ride she’s laughing loudly at whatever he just said, her voice carrying out loudly in the vast space of the flat complex. Liam is mummering a half-hearted response when Zayn slips into his equally cold car, onto the equally cold leather seats, and closes the door using the equally cold silver handle. He immediately turns on the engine, bashes at the dashboard buttons until the air conditioning is blasting warm air, and backs out of the parking space.  
  
He’s down the road and is heading into the lively part of Camden in no time. The radio is playing some late night comedy show, the bright lights of the world’s night dances in the very near distance and passes him as he drives on, and he’s starting to feel his past sleepiness slip away from him, going quickly unnoticed.  
  
Zayn’s never been one for a true social life, like going to clubs and linking arms with a lovely girl as they explore the town and go into London’s city, maybe, but he loves just being in the middle of things, basking in all the energy and exuberance that teenagers bring when the day folds into dark and fluorescent lights play in the sky. Being a college professor, he feels his youth has been ripped from him at such a young, tender age, so being able to actually go out and just suck up all the friendliness and togetherness that his neighborhood has to bring is an opportunity he’ll jump on fast.  
  
He gets his car parked near the busier streets of Camden, prays to himself that the cold will somehow, somewhere subside, and then battles the bitter wind that passes through when he finally gets out and into the atmosphere. It’s loud and there are all kinds of unintelligible songs thumping in the distance; Zayn has just arrived and he already has no idea what to do, or even what to look at first.  
  
Everyone’s walking down the street and across the road in their coats, draping lights dancing vibrant colors above their heads. Zayn walks past the market and has to stare at all the stands with those little canopy blankets and bright, glowing bulbs hanging off the tops of them. There are people looking at all the little trinkets on the stands for sale, arms either wrapped around a lover, a family member, or bags of previous purchases. Excitement’s buzzing in the air and Zayn wants to be wrapped in all of it; he wants to brush hands with everyone he passes — no matter how strange or creepy that sounds — feeling the brief warmth of their skin to his, and give someone a gentle smile and hopefully receive one back. He wants to feel like he belongs.  
  
Zayn continues to walk and watch and oogle at everything he sees. He’s seen these stores and markets and all the eccentricities that they bring all the time, but something about the glowing lights against all the blackness, and the inviting faces that he’s only been able to see when things slip into dark, makes Camden so magical, so _inspiring_. He decides that if he’s going to be out for the night, he’s going to completely and utterly enjoy himself. So — why the hell not.  
  
His feet carry himself to a joint called Victor’s Pub right by Camden’s waterfront, and the place is wide, with a high roof, the flooring dark wood, and the overall theme just going for a very casual, very laidback vibe. It’s a bit busy and bustling when he enters, with a jazz band playing and everything, and Zayn sighs with a smile; _yes_. This is exactly what he’s been needing for a while now: a few pints, a beautiful jazz band to make merry sounds over all the chatter, and a seat by the window to watch couples and families pass him by.  
  
Zayn walks up to the front and gets himself just that: a tall, cold glass of beer. The man behind the bar gives him a smile and a cheerful welcome, and, just like that, Zayn feels like he’s been invited to their world, _this_ world. He takes a sip of it, lets it crawl down his throat and leave that bitter taste on his tongue, and turns and makes his way towards the seat he mentally snagged just in the back corner, by the last window.  
  
He’s sitting down, taking another sip, and begins to proper settle when he looks up and notices, at the four-person table in front of him, a quiet, still lad with his third pint leading a trail of two empty glasses behind it.  
  
Zayn doesn’t take much notice at first; his mind is still reeling over Camden’s night life and how he’s surprised he’s never done this before — but then something drags his honey amber eyes from a small child holding its mother’s hand and back to the face of the blonde boy sitting alone. It’s almost like there’s absolutely nothing special about the guy, which makes Zayn overlook such a seemingly insignificant customer of the pub; though, when Zayn feels himself just _staring_ , he realizes that it’s less about the fact that there’s nothing special about ‘em and more about the fact that the blonde lad’s not giving _off_ anything particularly appealing.  
  
He’s slumped in his seat, elbows resting on the table, baby blue eyes without a glimmer and face a dead pale, save a thin little coating of natural red across the apples of his cheeks. His lips are slightly parted and downturned, giving way for fleeting glimpses of straight, white teeth, and his hair isn’t styled much, just a tad stringy with dark brown roots. Then Zayn knows he’s just looking way too hard now — but, wow, sure, the bloke’s kinda cute. He knows if he can see just the littlest passing of a smile that entire face will light up in a fashion that he’s sure many strangers in the pub don't know he possesses. And if he laughs, or chuckles, or, hell, even cuter, _giggles_ for just a moment, just a tiny little second, Zayn knows he can make the world crumble.  
  
It’s a grand statement for having just _seen_ the lad, but Zayn’s more than halfway through his beer and he’s feeling a bit more adventurous, a bit more free. And the easygoing atmosphere that the pub and the neighborhood brings isn’t making it any better — not at all.  
  
Zayn refuses to believe that the world of novels has given him the ability to find beauty in just about anyone; it’s definitely the alcohol.  
  
After a moment of nervous flicking at the handle of his glass and creepy shifty-eyed glances at the blonde in front of him, he finally jerks himself up and onto his feet, which makes a loud scraping noise of chair legs against floorboards, which, in turn, causes unwanted attention from both the two men in suits behind him and the lad in front of him.  
  
Zayn’s heart practically locks up in his throat as he stumbles over the top right leg of his chair, eyeing the kid who’s been eyeing him for about a minute now. His baby blue eyes are wide and curious, lips now pulled into a straight line as he watches Zayn awkwardly make his way from his own table to his. Then he drops down into the seat across from him, makes a face when his words don’t come out fast enough, and then clears his throat a couple of times, one hand running over his dark head of hair.  
  
Very smooth, Zayn Malik. Such a charming lad.  
  
“Hey,” Zayn begins weakly, like he’s just been punched in the stomach, and, yup, that makes him seem one hundred times more charming. Most certainly.  
  
But the blonde lad doesn’t seem too phased about his not too well-executed introduction; he just blinks slowly at him, expression still more curious than anything else; and maybe there’s a dash of amusement there — though Zayn’s sure he’s making hopeful perceivations.  
  
“Are you drunk, mate?” the guy finally says, top lip inching upwards over his front teeth, then holy _fuck_ , if this bloke doesn’t have the cutest Irish accent Zayn’s ever heard. He’s so stupefied by the way he sounds that he can only bat his long, dark lashes at him for a couple of seconds, making sure his ears heard correctly over the softening sax solo and the constant laughter of a table of six just across the pub.  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I, uh,” he immediately stops, blinks some more at that pale face, and then shakes his head briefly, reaching up to smooth down his hair again. “I mean, _no_ — I just —” He leans towards him and tilts his head downwards half an inch, peering up at the blonde with large amber eyes as if being confidential about it all. “Are you Irish?”  
  
This is what gets Probably Irish to smile, and, just as Zayn guessed, it’s quite a smile; a little goofy, sorta sloppy, but that’s the absolute best thing about it. “Yeah,” he finally says slowly, the fingers of his right hand playing with an unused napkin on the table. “I’m from Mullinger.”  
  
When Zayn gives him a blank stare, he corrects himself and says, “Ireland. I’m from Ireland.”  
  
Zayn finally nods, and then has to smile, because that’s cute, really fucking cute. A blonde-haired, blue-eyed lad from Ireland; seems like something typical, yet still awe worthy. “Ireland, huh?” He has to nod again, hand still playing in his slicked back hair. “I’m from Bradford.” He extends his hand to him, trying at a charming half-smile in hopes that it’ll somehow make up for the pitiful entrance. “I’m Zayn.”  
  
“Niall.” Confirmed Irish carefully takes his hand and shakes it. The palm of his hand is warm and inviting, although the tips of his fingers remain cold from touching the cool glass of his pints. “‘Nice to meet you, Zayn.”  
  
Zayn’s sad about having to finally remove his hand from Niall’s, but he pretends it doesn’t bother him in the least and widens his smile. “Niall? It’s really fitting, actually.”  
  
“Yeah?” Niall slips him a look, an unfamiliar, but animated glow to his eyes. “What’re you after, Zayn? Sex? A new friend? And don’t say ‘a new friend’ ‘cause not even I’m that dumb.”  
  
Zayn doesn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it before, but now, listening to the way he slurs and the way he slightly rocks when he speaks, he realizes that the bloke is tipsy. Drunk, even, guessing by his loose demeanor; though, to be fair, Zayn doesn’t know how Niall is without a couple of drinks in his system, so he can’t be too sure.  
  
It’s a bit of a let down, actually, to come across somebody who’s obviously capable of so much life, but then they’re hammered, not completely in their right mind, and Zayn’s not one for having conversations and making half-assed pick up lines to someone who can’t even fully consent to it all.  
  
“Did you come here alone?”  
  
Niall’s eyebrows furrow. “Don’t ignore my question.”  
  
Zayn’s eyebrows furrow next. “If I was? Does that bother you?” He tried his best to go for more of an underlying seductive tone, y’know, like the ‘handsome’ male love interests do in those movies and TV shows, but ends up coming off more annoyed/exasperated than anything else; holy fuck he hates himself right now. Even with a drunk potential date he can’t seem to find his words correctly — its been way too fucking long.  
  
Niall’s golden brown eyebrows are still furrowed, lips slightly downturned, and that looks like a bad sign. A really, really bad sign. Then, as another song picks up from the unnamed jazz band at the front, Niall’s face dips into a slightly darker shade of pink and he says, with that worrying expression still on, “No. It’s just — if you’re after somethin’ then don’t go around with that stupid look about you. Just . . . just ask.”  
  
Zayn’s sure his own right eyebrow arches so high above his eye that it flies off of his face and slams onto the roof. “Stupid look about me? Explain that, please, because I’m not quite sure I’m understanding —”  
  
“You know,” Niall huffs impatiently, narrowing baby blue eyes. He gesticulates with his hands wildly, spreading his fingers and opening the palms to imitate Zayn’s mortifying introduction while remaining in his seat. “The whole . . . th’whole clumsy, _look at me_ act. You’re’nt — not — foolin’ anybody.”  
  
Before Zayn can even begin to respond, Niall raises an index finger and wags it at him, dangerously close to Zayn’s nose since, when drunk, it’s apparently impossible to grasp the concept of personal boundaries. “See, that’s what peeves me off about blokes like you,” his frown deepens as he struggles to find correct words. “You go from pub t’pub with those big eyes and hope that someone falls for it; I’m not fallin’ for it anymore. So whatever you want from me, you’re not getting it. Piss off, yeah?”  
  
Zayn opens his mouth, but, once again, Niall interrupts. “I don’t wanna hear it. If you’re tryin’a convince me t’let you take me home or something, you're out of luck, because —”  


 

❤♡❤♡❤♡

  
  
Turns out Niall walked into town rather than drove there, his flat being only a short walk away. Zayn lets him wear his favorite sports jacket since Niall’s miraculously only wearing a thin, long-sleeved shirt that barely protects him from midnight’s painful weather. He can’t bare the thought of letting drunk little golden boy Niall go cold — and it’s only been three hours since he met him.  
  
He opens the passenger door for Niall and slips him inside, closing the door behind him after telling him, “Make sure to put on your seatbelt, mate.” He then walks around the front of the car to the driver’s seat as fast as he can, shivering in only his scarf and short-sleeved tee shirt. He gets into the car, locks the doors, and turns on the engine, backing out of his parking spot carefully.  
  
Zayn keeps glancing over at Niall as he drives, both for instructions to his flat and just to watch as he cuddles into the corner of the door, glassy eyes halfway closed and skin pink both from the cold and intoxication. His browning blonde hair is even more messy and is pressed up against the side of his face, against the flushed cheekbone, and his legs are curled up onto the seat, close to his body for warmth. It’s painfully cute; fuck Niall’s whole . . . whole _thing_ is driving Zayn nuts, if ‘thing’ is even a good word to describe it.  
  
“Are you trusting me to take you back to your place safely because you’re drunk, or ‘cause you’re too trusting?” Zayn asks after receiving explicit, soft-spoken instructions over the purring of the engine. “Because, either way, it isn’t safe to get in a car with a stranger.”  
  
Niall makes an annoyed humming noise, shifts in the leather seat, and then parts his lips to breathe, distracted, “I don’t care about much anymore.” And the way it’s said, so casually and simple and to the point, makes Zayn worry. Like, _really_ worry. Because how many other guys have driven Niall home before? And how many of them haven’t done anything shitty like forcing themselves on his drunk, nonconsensual form?  
  
And, most of all, _why_?  
  
Though Zayn says nothing about it, letting it remain as a bitter taste in his mouth, and gets to Niall’s small, dingy little flat in proceeding silence. He stares at the chipping, dirty front door, wondering who else knows where he lives because of Niall’s complete apathy to it all. It’s scary. Really fucking scary.  
  
“We’re here,” Zayn finally says, clearing his throat. He looks over at Niall’s half-asleep face, how it looks so peaceful compared to how it was just an hour or two ago. He reaches over and gives the younger lad’s knee a very brief tap; in all honesty, he’s a little afraid of touching anymore than that. He doesn’t want to seem like the kind of guy to take advantage of a defenseless person and then just ditch them by their front door, alone, sobering up and broken. Zayn doesn’t want to meet Niall’s low expectations. “Should I help you up?”  
  
“No,” Niall groans almost instantly — which hurt a little, actually. “I’m goin’.” He loosely raises a hand and pulls at the handle until the passenger door clicks open, letting in an instant cold breeze. He steadies himself so he won’t tumble out of the car, and plants one foot on the pavement outside. “Thanks, mate.”  
  
Zayn nods, licking suddenly chapped lips. “Be safe, Niall.” When baby blue eyes turn to sleepily look at him, he gives them a stern look, one hand barely gripping the steering wheel. “Really.”  
  
Niall continues to look. It’s as if he’s finally focusing in on Zayn’s face for the first time that night. And then something akin to a smile touches those pretty, thin lips, and he nods, an uncertain little thing. “Yeah.” He finally gets out into the cold and closes the door behind him, pausing before making a hasty stumble up the short front steps and to his door.  
  
Zayn watches that broad back from where his car is temporarily parked, one hand instinctively reaching up to smooth down his fringe, and then slide down to rub at his shaved jaw line. Although it’s just past one a.m., he feels jittery, full of adrenaline, like he’s preparing himself for a run. And he backs up and drives off feeling just the same, trying to fight the stupid, wry smile twisting on his face.  
  
Because now he knows what he’s going to write about first.  


 

❤♡❤♡❤♡

  
  
“There’s lots of _passion_ in writing. There’s more than just a romance, or a thriller, or a historical fiction. It’s another world, the inner workings of somebody’s mind; it’s the true wit that an author possesses all written out and available for anyone to read on a few hundred pages.” Short pause as he turns to walk the length of his desk again, one hand raised and curled as he finds the rest of his lecture somewhere in his mind. “Right there, in that novel in front of you, you’re looking at a literary genius. And, whether you agree with it or not, _every_ author is a literary genius — published or not.” A distant smile touches Zayn’s lips as the dead silence sinks in in the classroom; he looks away from the window right by his office chair and twists his head to address his students. “We’re _all_ able of literary work. And that’s because we all have thousands of stories in our heads that’s dying to be let out. _That’s_ the most important idea of this lecture.”  
  
Class ends with little mummers that’s spoken in such a way that Zayn knows it’s about the speech he had just given. A couple of female students approach him as he gathers his things to head out and have some lunch with Liam. He answers their questions about their assigned reading and analysis paper, trying his best to pay attention to them while continuously reeling over his Saturday night.  
  
Because, yeah, that night was a little fucked up, but, strangely, really, really nice. It’s just the unexpected feel it gave, the super realistic and, actually, _normal_ atmosphere of it all made Zayn discover that not everything is a novel, or something so easily and simply written in a book. Reality isn’t in chronological order; it sometimes has those little hills that you take a few days to climb over, and then other times it’s a straight road, an open prairie, where you can run and scream at the top of your lungs and lie in the grass, blinking lazily up at a free sky.  
  
Niall doesn’t seem tightly stitched together. Or someone with a steady, simple personal life. But that’s the best thing about him, Zayn has to think. That’s the absolute best thing about that golden boy.  


 

❤♡❤♡❤♡

  
  
Lunch is some tea, beans, garlic bread, ham, and a side of The Sun displaying several HD shots of ‘wild’ Harry Styles stumbling out of a club with Cara Delevingne on one side, her fingers looped with his, and Nick Grimshaw or whatever the bloke’s name is with pink hair and an arm snaked around his waist on the other. _Going wild with his clique: Harry Styles!_ screams the headline, adorned with a thick black outline and a red square surrounding the big, bold print.  
  
Zayn’s first reaction is worry; Harry’s face is all hard and clenched, obviously annoyed at the clusterfuck of paparazzi swarming him. Then his next reaction is pity and shame. The poor guy can’t have one fun night out without all of this mess; and those fingers entwined with Cara’s really isn’t helping his ‘I’m really just a normal boy’ act. The life of fame and fortune is hard, it seems. But it’s not much of his issue; it’s more of something for Louis and Harry to work out somehow. And his management, he guesses.  
  
Liam takes Zayn’s ham off his plate while chewing and eyeing the front cover of the magazine, a half-amused, half-bothered look on. He sets the ham on his own plate before rolling up the sleeves of his light gray dress shirt, giving his shortly-cut head a little sympathetic shake. “They’re really givin’ it to him, yeah?” He picks up a cup of his tea and takes a long sip, big browns still going over the pictures.  
  
“It feels kinda off,” Zayn says. Liam looks up at him. “Seeing him on all this rubbish when I know him in real life. But then when I’m lookin’ at these tabloids I feel like I don’t know ‘em at all.” He scoops up a forkful of beans and raises it to his lips, leaning forward to take a bite.  
  
Liam very slowly lowers his cup back onto the circular table. “You’re right. He seems really . . . faraway?” He raises his gaze to the cafe’s spinning fans as if trying to make sure what he said fits. “Yeah. Faraway. Not the Harry I know.”  
  
There are a few short, understanding nods shared before they continue to eat in silence.  
  
There’s a lot of pleasant chatter in the cafe — just small and innocently weaving through the constant clatter of dishes and the scraping of silverware against surfaces. The longer Zayn sits there and chews, the tighter his chest gets, all up until he can barely look at Liam without wanting to tell him everything, to just blurt it all out and confe —  
  
“I met somebody when I went out last week.” There. Quick, concise, easy.  
  
Then Liam’s looking up at him with curved eyebrows, slicing through a stolen ham piece with his knife and fork without watching his own handiwork. “What? _When_?”  
  
Zayn swallows hard, trying to tell his beating heart to calm down. But confessing something like this to Liam can be dangerous, depending on Mr. Independent’s mood. “When you kicked me outta the flat and rushed me off on Saturday. Remember that?”  
  
Liam frowns, wagging a fork at him. “Hey — _you_ told me that I could bring’er there; do _you_ remember that?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, either way, I was kicked out of my flat, and I went down to this place near Camden’s waterfront called Victor’s pub? Yeah, somethin’ like that, and it was pretty nice, actually —”  
  
“But you don’t like drinking?” Liam stuffs a sliced piece of ham into his mouth and chews dutifully at it, open-mouthed. “Why’d you go to some pub?”  
  
Zayn huffs at him. “Let me finish my story, Li. Can I do that or will you keep interrupting?”  
  
Liam smiles apologetically at him. “Go on. I’m just afraid I know where this is going.”  
  
Okay — Mr. Independent is definitely a wet blanket, especially when it comes to stuff like this. But Zayn tries not to let it bother him too much and sits up higher in his wooden chair, snatching up his garlic bread and absently fiddling with it while keeping his eyes sternly on Liam’s erratic ones. “So,” he starts bitterly. “I had _one_ pint — _one_ — and then I met this, this lad named Niall. And turns out he’s Irish, yeah? Which is pretty cute, actually.” He clears his throat and bites gently into the corner of his bread. “More than pretty cute, really, but, um, not the point here; we talked some and — and, c’ _mon_ , mate, stop looking at me like that.”  
  
Liam laughs nervously, offering a curt shrug. “Sorry, sorry. I just can’t help it. You met some random Irish bloke and what I’m gettin’ from this little tale is that, is that you’re _interested_ in’em?” He leans a fraction closer to the table and rests the bottoms of his forearms on the smooth surface, looking incredulously into his friend’s face. “Interested in an Irish lad, Zayn? _Really_?”  
  
Zayn must’ve given him an offended look then, because Liam retreats like he just caught his toes in the door.  
  
“I mean, _yeah_ ; is there something unusual about it? I can’t be just a _little_ interested in Irish men?”  
  
“I just didn’t really expect you to be interested in _men_ , not just _Irish_ men.” Liam gives another shrug, as if trying to play it off innocently as to not offend Zayn again. He continues to cut into his ham and makes a concentrated face at it, tip of his tongue poking out between slightly-closed rows of teeth. “Like, yeah, you’ve kissed a few of’em before at clubs and such, but I . . . I just think there’s a difference between kissin’ a lad and _dating_ him, yeah?” He has to shrug one more time — that’s starting to piss Zayn off.  
  
“There’s nothing wrong with dating another guy,” Zayn breathes, more to himself than to Liam, but the cafe quiets just enough for him to be audible. He makes a face at his cooling tea and reaches out to it after dropping his fork onto his half-eaten plate.  
  
Liam looks at him like he’s been wounded. Which, why the fuck is he looking at him like that? Those faces are starting to piss Zayn off, too.  
  
“Yeah, ‘course there’s nothing wrong with it,” Liam starts carefully. “But —”  
  
“But? Why but?”  
  
“ _Because_ ,” Liam sighs. He also sets his silverware on his plate and rests the palms of his hands on the table, looking at Zayn seriously. Zayn can tell that this is about to get much, much more complicated than he previously thought it’d be. “Because men aren’t . . . they aren’t _settlers_. They don’t want what you do, Z. They want to . . . to, uh, shag, yeah, but they don’t want to settle.” He falters some, thinking. “And — and it’s not like they can give birth or marry you, or anything. If you want t’get serious with somebody, find a nice bird.” He picks back up his fork and knife. “Like Perrie, that nice girl from your last semester’s class. You still have her cell number, don’t you?”  
  
This is exactly the type of shit that Zayn hates about Liam. The no children and no marrying thing is true, yes, but it doesn’t mean he can’t be happy with another man. And he’s already been so bent up about Niall and his bright eyes and his browning hair and that little spunk that he has when he’s been drinking (given that the only face he knows was when he was drinking); it’s all so intoxicating. And then that sleeping face when he drove him back, and that farewell that felt a little more than passionate, a little more than friendly.  
  
“I like Niall,” Zayn says quietly. “I _felt_ something — I really did.” He looks wide-eyed at Liam, who’s now making a face, but isn’t looking at him. “I even gave him my favorite jacket from m’mum to borrow, and —” Wait a goddamn minute. “And — ?”  
  
Suddenly he jerks upwards, jumping to his feet and pretty much knocking his chair backwards and to the tiled floors with a loud, heavy thud. Liam looks up at him, shocked, as does most of the cafe, and Zayn is so lost in Saturday night that he doesn’t even realize the attention he brought to their table.  
  
Zayn’s honey amber eyes keeps widening and widening until he’s looking at Liam like he’s an alien. “ _He still has my jacket!_ ”  
  
Liam continues to stare, just as startled as before. And then his face softens and softens until it’s hardening into a frown. “Why th’bloody hell did you give him your jacket for?” he hisses, looking around conspicuously at all the people still staring. “And _siddown_!”  
  
Zayn just keeps standing, shaking his head and staring off with that wide-eyed look. “ _Shit_!” He quickly snatches up his brown trench coat and pulls it on. “I have to go get my jacket, I just —” He erratically fishes through his dress pants pocket, pulls out his wallet, and slaps a few pounds down onto the table, telling Liam, “here’s my half,” before he’s speed-walking out the door without picking back up his chair.  
  
Liam watches his broad back turn down the sidewalk and quickly recede, a deer in headlights.  
  
Or, rather, a peeved deer in headlights.  


 

❤♡❤♡❤♡

  
  
Zayn’s halfway to Camden town when he gets phoned by Louis. Zayn has one hand on the steering wheel, driving aggressively, while his other one pulls his cell out, glances quickly at the caller ID, and then taps the _ACCEPT_ button before its against his ear. He doesn’t even get a chance to introduce himself or say his greetings before Louis’ saying, “Did you see the news this morning, mate?” in a rushed, clipped voice.  
  
“The news?” Zayn asks, a little distracted while turning down Woburn Pl, just managing to dodge a grey SUV and its four inhabitants. “Like the weather, and such? It’s not supposed to rain until nine or ten p.m. tonight, mate.”  
  
“No, no, you prat,” Louis sighs miserably. “About _Harry_ ; those shitty little tabloid news channels.” The background is extremely silent, although at about this time Louis should be working over at Priory Heights day care center after classes at the uni. Zayn wonders if he’s on lunch break, or in the back room, or something, just before his mind tosses Niall back into the mix and now he’s thinking about Louis’ whereabouts, Harry, and Niall all at once.  
  
“You — my fucking _god_ move your car! Drive, man! Where, um, where are you, Lou?” Zayn is just getting into Camden town when traffic and street-crossing pedestrians obstruct his pathway to Niall’s flat. He sort of still remembers where it is, though he hopes he’ll just remember landmarks to take him most of the way there.  
  
“That doesn’t matter right now, does it?” Louis says, growing more and more annoyed as the time passes. “They’re going on with this rubbish, saying that Harry’s dating Cara. Now, he told me that there’s nothing going on with them, but then there’s some photos of him at the Gala Casino over in Russell Square?”  
  
“Photos?” comes Zayn’s lost little response.  
  
“Photos of’em having a _snog_ with Cara,” Louis cries. “And then he’s leaving the club holding her _hand_ , mate. _Holding her hand_. So Harry’s telling me one thing, but then there’s all this proof against him, so what am I supposed to believe?”  
  
Zayn distantly thinks back to the magazine he saw in the cafe with Liam; he narrows his eyes at an older man crossing right in front of his slowing car. He’s back in the heart of Camden, with all its vintage shops and pubs and such. It’s so crowded, even on a miserable Monday afternoon. “But then that Grimshaw lad’s arm was around his waist, yeah?”  
  
Louis huffs. “That’s _Nick_ ; of course he’s gotta be holding Harry someway or another. But there’s no pictures of him _snogging_ the bloke; just of Cara doin’ it.”  
  
“Why do you even care anyway? Harry’s a single lad; he can snog whoever he wants, then?”  
  
Louis grows instantly silent, and Zayn doesn’t even realize that he’s just said the worst thing possible when he pulls up in a parking spot in front of Niall’s familiar dingy flat. It looks different, though, much dirtier, since it’s the day instead of night. “Look,” Zayn says, twisting his head to look at the cars passing by so he can successfully open his car door without it getting dinged by any passing by. “We’ll have to chat about this later, okay? I’m sorta busy right now.”  
  
“Yeah,” Louis says softly. “We’ll chat later.”  
  
Zayn hangs up, stuffing his cell back into his trench coat pocket, and hurriedly gets out of the car and closes the door after him. The weather is a little cold today, with a slightly cool breeze coming through, but Zayn doesn’t really feel anything. He’s much too worried about, number one, retrieving his jacket in hopes that Niall is currently home, and, number two, seeing Niall again after that night. He has a whole five pages written in his journal about their first encounter, and he really hopes it’ll continue to be a happy, inspiring story.  
  
And, actually, he wonders more than ever how Niall is when he’s completely, one hundred percent sober. Will he still be as snarky, or will he be calmer, more easygoing? He doesn’t know which one he’s wishing for more than the other, but Zayn just wants to be sure that Niall won’t dislike him or give him the cold shoulder. He’s been working himself up for too long for a reaction like that.  
  
Zayn steps slowly up the front stairs and stares at the dirty front door for a while, taking deep, even breaths to calm himself. _Just introduce yourself and ask for your coat. That’s all you have to do, Zayn._ He raises a fist slowly and knocks on the wood — gently at first, but quickly growing in strength the longer he does it.  
  
When done, he shoves his hands in his coat pockets and looks around at the people and cars passing by. It smells like burnt food, trash, and the distant aroma of baked goods outside, along with the occasional gas-stench as vehicles make their way down the busy road. The Camden atmosphere isn’t as intoxicating when it’s so bright out.  
  
Then, unfortunately, no one comes to the door. It’s dead quiet when Zayn presses his ear to it; does Niall actually even live here, or was that all a front on Saturday?  
  
Holy shit — Zayn got his coat stolen by some attractive Irish lad and he was stupid enough to play innocent about it.  
  
 _Holy shit_.  
  
Zayn, absolutely flustered, worried, and angered, jumps back into his car, slams the door, and turns it around to drive bitterly back through Camden and back to the uni, trying to make it in time for his last lecture of the day. Why was he such a fucking idiot? Why did he put so much trust in some most-likely-fling and give him such an expensive jacket?  
  
 _Why did he believe he could get something from him?_  
  
Zayn’s forced to park down the street from his flat since all the parking spaces in front of the duplex are taken. He’s close to tears over some stupid article of clothing given to him from his mum during his walk of shame to home. Luckily, he thinks, Liam isn’t going to be home until late that night, so he can have himself a good, sad cry, go to work and back, stuff his face with food from the fridge, and go to bed early. No book-reading or midnight chats tonight — only God knows that both of those things put him in this mess in the first place.  
  
He squeezes through crowds and groups and walks dumbly along the sidewalk, ignoring all the car-honking, loud chatter, and music from every which direction. He’s too much of a git to enjoy any of this; he even angrily turns down employees with fliers full of coupons and advertisements on the way, suddenly in such a bad mood that he can’t bother to be nice to poor workers anymore.  
  
Then another flier is shoved against his chest, and a dangerously Irish accent says, “Twenty percent off at Retro World, mate; you should come in and check it out,” and Zayn’s just one fucking second away from telling the guy off and hissing at him to leave him alone and try not to touch him next time, but mid-turn he catches eye of baby blue eyes, a pale face flushed pink, and that delicious browning golden hair.  
  
Zayn stops the flow of traffic behind him instantly, looking dumbfounded at Mr. Niall Himself’s curious face.  
  
‘Cause holy _fuck_ , if his luck isn’t on key today.  
  
“Niall?” he says, open-mouthed in shock. People bitterly walk around him, shoulders butting, but he stays implanted on the ground, hands in pockets and eyes wide.  
  
“Zayn?” Niall answers slowly, as if the memories are gently flowing back to him, raising an eyebrow and thin lips touching on a smile. He slowly lowers his hand holding the fliers and is now looking shy — and a little embarrassed, too. “From that night, yeah?”  
  
Zayn nods. He looks off at the shops down the road, at the shops across the street, and then back into Niall’s face, stunned. “I was just . . . I mean, I was just at your place. So, it’s — um. Hey.”  
  
Niall smiles. Oh god, that goofy, shy little smile, except it’s deeper, stronger, unlike his night of drunken stupor. “You were at my flat? Couldn’t get enough of the stupid Irish lad that can’t keep his mouth shut when he’s drinkin’, yeah?” There's some embarrassment tossed into there somewhere.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Niall’s smile falters. “What?”  
  
Oh shit. Retract, retract. “I — I mean, yeah, I was at your place, but to get, uh, my jacket.” He starts gesticulating. “Y’know, the one I. Let you borrow.”  
  
Niall’s face completely falls now, and he looks guilty. “Oh, yeah, I’m so sorry about that. I really didn’t mean to take it, I was just kinda drunk, and I’m, just. Sorry.”  
  
Zayn smiles, slipping in the spot next to Niall when he finally realizes that it’s rude to obstruct the small pathway on the sidewalk. “It’s okay, really. I just can’t leave you with it, y'know?” Niall’s nodding and Zayn nods back, smile growing bigger and stupider because Zayn’s a big, stupid fool. The biggest.  
  
“I’ll go get that for you after work,” Niall insists sternly. “I hope you don’t mind waiting until six, mate.”  
  
He’ll wait. Most definitely. Waiting’s nice. Really nice. Zayn nods again, honey amber gaze shifting from pedestrians to Niall every once in awhile in fear that he’ll start staring too hard and Niall will get uncomfortable. “That’s fine. I’ll just wait. Y’know. Yeah.” He can feel the heat creeping to his face. “I’ll come back at six. Have fun at —” he tilts his head backwards and squints in the sun at the fluorescent _RETRO WORLD!_ lights up on the shop they’re in front of. “ — Retro. World.”  
  
Niall’s face goes red. “Yeah. Thanks.”  
  
With one last awkward grin and an equally-awkward wave, Zayn stumbles off, sinking into the crowd and hoping to disappear completely. He doesn’t know what it is about him losing his cool when Niall’s around, but it’s certainly not appreciated. Especially when he’s trying to impress someone. Someone being his love interest.  
  
Scratch that: love _hopeful_ is more like it.  
  
Zayn sighs to himself while looking both ways down the street. He crosses it within a crowd of people, so much wishful thinking filling his head.  


 

❤♡❤♡❤♡

  
  
Zayn learns, almost immediately, that looks are most certainly deceiving. He expected filth – rubbish everywhere, kitchen sink full, soiled clothes piled in corners, and maybe even uncleaned barf staining the carpets; but, when Niall invites him into his flat that evening it's nothing that he expected. At all.  
  
Everything's neat; really fucking neat. There are labels, and frequently dusted bookshelves and surfaces, and there's this floral smell in the air, clinging to the furniture. And then sitting there, over the back of the brown, recycled couch, is his sports jacket, folded and tucked proper.  
  
"Wow," Zayn breathes without realizing it. He slips off his shoes by the front door and takes a slow, mesmerized step further into the small flat, raising large honey eyes to everything in the living room and kitchen. "Do you . . . you live here alone?"  
  
Niall kicks off his own sneakers and picks up both pairs of shoes to sit them nicely right in the corner of the foyer, smiling bashfully. "Yeah; m'mum and dad were neat freaks when I was living with them. I guess it kinda rubbed off on me." He raises back into standing position and gives Zayn a quick, nervous glance.  
  
Zayn ambles into the living room and places the palm of his hand onto the fabric of his jacket. Niall's saying something about coming to the kitchen to get a cuppa and maybe some tea cakes, but Zayn decides not to pay much attention when his gaze climbs the back wall and he's suddenly standing face to face with Harry Styles.  
  
 _Harry_?  
  
Except Harry Styles is shirtless, face turned towards a woman with a small dark blue bikini on and stringy brown hair tumbling down her frail shoulders. One of his lean arms is around her tan waist, while the other is through her hair, slender fingers brushing over her blemish-free cheek. _We're like magic_ , it says in big, spacy print above their heads. _Magic, by Calvin Klein_.  
  
At first Zayn is extremely confused, so many questions beginning to stack up inside his head. Then he's looking at Niall's extremely mortified face, his own twisted in shock and bewilderment. Because, like, the fuck? Why is a _Harry Styles_ advertisment up in his living room?  
  
"I don't get many visitors."  
  
"I – I can see that."  
  
Zayn's eyes move from a completely red Niall back to the advertisement, and he stands with one hand on his jacket, the other in his pocket, examining the tacked-up poster in both admiration and disgust. He's still not completely used to seeing Harry everywhere in London – on the sides of buses, the big fluorescent screens in the heart of the city, and even on the telly after his favorite show goes into commercial; and knowing now that people even _put him on their walls_ , he feels even more disturbed. Harry's a fit lad, yeah, but to this extent is a little . . . a little _obsessive_.  
  
And Niall of all people is one of _those_.  
  
As if sensing Zayn's none-too-positive reaction to it, Niall rushes the living room and untacks it, letting shirtless Harry and unnamed brunette girl flutter to the floor on its face. But, nope, that's not going to make Zayn unsee it, even if he burns the thing. Zayn already knows he's a Harry girl.  
  
Or, er, Harry boy. But that has an even weirder ring to it.  
  
Niall's face still beet red and baby blues erratic, he mumbles, "My ex put that up and I never bothered to take it down," but even that blatant lie doesn't save him. Zayn's definitely still judging.  
  
"You've taken a liking for Harry, then?" Zayn hears himself say in an attempt to break the awkward tension rapidly building. "I wouldn't blame you; he's a charming guy, yeah?" He very softly clears his throat, runs a shaky hand over his hair, and lifts his jacket, tossing it over his elbow.  
  
Niall only makes this brief noise behind sealed lips, nods loosely, and jerks a hand in the direction of the kitchen. "You should, um, at least have a tea cake before you go? If you haven't already eaten."  
  
Zayn decides to accept his proposition. Anything to get them away from this topic and onto something that doesn't take away from Niall's golden boy image. Or, golden boy _expectations_ is more the word for it.  
  
So the two enter his tiny kitchen and Zayn leans against the counter with his sports jacket, absently feeling the fabric with the tips of his fingers while he watches Niall's broad back work to open a new package of tea cakes.  
  
Somewhere within the next thirty minutes Yorkshire tea is prepared with the cakes and they're settling in the square kitchen table on the creaky, frail seats, Zayn watching Niall pour the both of them some tea in two mugs.  
  
"You live in Camden, mate?" Niall asks, looking up from his task to give Zayn a curious stare.  
  
Zayn nods, smiling graciously when Niall slides his mug over to him. "Just down the road, actually. Closer towards the local uni."  
  
"Yeah?" Niall asks rhetorically before leaning forward, head tilted towards the table, to get the tea cake into his mouth. His loose, white tee shirt flutters down by the collar, revealing the long, sharp jut of his collarbones. They move along, disappearing just under the short sleeves, and Zayn can't help but follow them with his eyes.  
  
There's not much conversation after that, leaving room for a quiet evening snack, but it's not like Zayn minds much, because, wow, Niall's really, really pretty. He means, like, beautiful, almost. The rounded slope of his cheeks, the way a thin sheen of pink dances across his flat nose, tampering off just before returning along the length of his neck, above those jutting collarbones.  
  
There's a glow – definitely a glow. Zayn's not imagining that. Then those bright eyes are looking into his, a browning eyebrow raised in curiosity, and that accent comes out of hiding when he says, slowly, "Is there something on my face?"  
  
Zayn's one second away from blurting, ' _beauty, yeah_ ', but even under Niall's influence he knows that's stupendously cliche – embarrassing, even. So he, trying to tamper back into the charming demeanor he had back when he was open on the hypothetical market, gives Niall a half smile, gaze flickering from his food to the younger boy's lips and says, "You're just. Something."  
  
"Something?"  
  
Zayn nods, not missing a beat. "Something good."  
  
Okay, any tension once thick in the air falls now, and Niall's just looking at Zayn like the wall he's been holding up has crumbled; with the barrier removed, staring and any sort of brief, careful physical intimacy is fair game. Zayn, feeling this, pushes his luck and moves a sock-covered foot forward, brushing it quickly over the tops of Niall's, and reaches for his mug as if it could be accidental if Niall took it wrong.  
  
Niall doesn't seem to notice. His lips are still parted in fascination, eyes running over Zayn's clean-shaven face, down his sharp nose, and at that pretty mouth, wet with saliva and tea. Maybe, then, this can be it, Zayn thinks excitedly. Maybe there'll be numbers shared, dates promised, fluttering kisses against flushed, tense skin and over rounded knuckles.  
  
Zayn wants to be able to feel the wells behind Niall's collarbones; discover the way his ribs travel down, taper into a slight waist, and end off at grating hipbones; and let that be okay, let Niall let him do that. It's too fast, though, and it's something Zayn wants to work up to, wants to savor.  
  
Please let that be okay.  
  
Then Niall gets up, hands obviously shaking as his erratic fingers wrap around his mug and lifts it from the table. "I have t'go to bed soon," he says, short, nearly out of breath from just standing up and walking a couple of inches to the sink. "Thanks for stopping by, though."  
  
That stung. It's an obvious kick-out. Zayn's face twists unpleasantly and he gives a silent, sharp nod, getting to his feet as if in slow motion. "Let me at least," he swallows hard, throat locking up in what feels like a bad case of rejection, "I'll help you clean up."  
  
Niall gives a soft thanks while Zayn reties the tea cakes, placing them on the counter, and carries his own mug and their plates to the dishwasher. "They're dirty, you can put'em in," Niall tells him, voice strained, and Zayn feels like he's nodding under water as he gets everything in and closes the door.  
  
Niall politely follows Zayn to the barely-foyer room, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. "Thanks for, um, letting me get my jacket back," Zayn says, lifting the elbow with his jacket to emphasize his gratitude, but his face is still twisted in that way that he can't help and his throat is even tighter and, oh god, are those _tears_? Please no tears, _please_. " – and the snacks, and such." He has to swallow again.  
  
"No problem." Niall watches Zayn get his shoes on and as he straightens back up, the older lad's eyes unable to look directly at him for too long.  
  
Zayn swallows again. Throat's still locked up. Fuck, he feels so pathetic. "Bye." He turns to the door and he doesn't realize he was so frazzled until he's trying to twist the doorknob and get the door open. Goddamn door. He's trying and trying, and it's getting a couple of seconds too long to make everything awkward, and oh god, he just has to _get out_.  
  
"I'm not good for commitment."  
  
Zayn's too lost in his own spinning mind for a moment to realize that Niall had just spoken; he's staring intently at the doorknob, feeling drunk, but then he turns to look at Niall and sees a complicated look crossing over his soft, rounded features. "You – ?"  
  
"I'm not looking for a relationship," Niall says, gently, like he's letting Zayn off easy. Not like that helps any, though.  
  
They look at one another again, and for a while this time; Niall's face is fighting for something to express, but nothing's coming on strongly enough to count. Zayn's eyes are slightly widened, lashes dark and wet, and his mouth is open on the start of a sentence.  
  
But nothing comes out, because Zayn's made less than half a thought against it before his lips are pressed hard to Niall's, tongue licking eagerly into that delicious mouth and basking in its warmth. He tastes delicious, so fucking good; it's making Zayn's head spin at how satisfying all of this is, no matter how fucked up things will be after.  
  
There are nails clawing into Zayn's clothed back, under his trench coat and up his sweater until palms are spread across the span of his shoulder blades, fingers curling to clutch at the soft skin. Zayn has Niall pressed between his chest and the wall, him looming over the blonde to set some sort of authority in the messy, grating kiss.  
  
It's all excited, heavy breaths, pricking stubble to smooth, shaven flesh, erratic, jerking movements as hands grab at anything and everything they can find on the other; which means Niall's hands end up on the back of Zayn's head, and then his hair is being held tightly and pulled, but Zayn's already so excited that the pain feels really fucking good; he has to hiss against Niall's mouth, eyes half-closed and glassy.  
  
Zayn grips the jut of Niall's hips, dragging him from the wall and over to the living room couch, and Niall whispers a vicious little, " _fuck_ ," and somehow that makes Zayn twitch in his trousers, because everything Niall does is already too exciting, too intoxicating.  
  
He loses his sports jacket somewhere along the journey. And then his trench coat. And then every other article of clothing, pretty much. But, to be fair, Niall's completely nude just after he is, legs wrapped tightly around Zayn's hips and pulling him in with the cross of his ankles. He's giving Zayn hard, toothy kisses down and along his stubbled jaw, across his throat, and then he's really biting now, prepared to leave marks that Zayn's wishing will never fade.  
  
" _God_ ," Zayn gasps before tugging Niall up by the back of his head, holding him there with the palm of his hand before they're kissing straight on now, desperate and much needed after that heavy, brief first encounter.  
  
And they don't think about much else, too far gone to be discovered.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if there's cliches in this story. i tried to make them my own but i may not have done that good of a job.


	3. T R E A D I N G ♡ S L O W L Y

"I fucked him," is the first thing Zayn can manage to get out as he's sitting in his own flat, it being seven a.m. in the fucking morning, and his clothes from last night are twisted on his shaky, jittery body.  
  
He's locked up in his bedroom, just back from Niall's place with the proof of their heated night dotting his throat, down his chest, and dragged across his back. The first person he thought to phone was Liam, even though the guy's out working over in Islington right now, just back from having a chat with a couple of eager customers.  
  
"Wait – _what_?" Liam screeches when he gets settled in his office. "You mean that Irish bloke? From that pub?"  
  
"Yeah, yeah; I went over to his flat to get my jacket that m'mum gave me, right? And then after a little chat he – he told me he doesn't want a relationship?"  
  
"I told you. I _told_ you."  
  
"Yeah, I know," Zayn huffs, so antsy that his knees keep bouncing. "But then we're at the door and, and – and then I'm having a snog with'em, and we get to his couch, and our clothes come off and –"  
  
" _Please_ spare me the details, mate," Liam grumbles. "So he says he doesn't want a relationship, but then you fuck him anyway? You know he won't respect you enough to want to date you after this, right?"  
  
Zayn's chest tightens over his quickly-pulsing heart. He gives his bottom lip a bite, trying to will his body to stay still, but it just _won't_. "Yeah," he says softly. "I know, but I – I left my number anyway."  
  
"You _what_?" Liam asks, and then there's the sound of phones ringing and a distant voice calling out to him, and his muffled voice says to them, "I'm coming, love, just a minute," before he's paying attention to the call again. "Look, mate, I've gotta get back to work; I'll have to hear about your stupidity and weird obsession with this Irish lad later."  
  
"Okay," Zayn sighs before hanging up and tossing his phone onto the bed.  
  
There are so many mixed emotions about the whole ordeal. He's a little happy it happened, _of course_ , but what if Liam's right? What if Niall will throw out the number he left and avoid him for the rest of his life? What if Niall doesn't respect him as a possible love interest anymore?  
  
Not like he wanted to be in a relationship in the first place, but Zayn can still hope, right? Hold on to that tiny little possibility that he'll prove Niall wrong and he'll realize that Zayn can make him happy. Even maybe the happiest he's ever been.  
  
If he'll just _call_ , then.

 

 

❤♡❤♡❤♡

  
  
It's after his last lecture on a Tuesday afternoon, and Zayn's back at the flat, once again alone. He's having a cuppa and is chewing on some stale biscuits while flipping through the TV channels, trying to find something acceptable to watch.  
  
He's dying over the lack of any calls or contact from Niall, wondering gravely if Liam really _was_ right, when he passes a celebrity gossip channel and has to go back when he notices that there's a whole segment on Harry going on.  
  
" _– 'nd he's over in Birmingham now, doing a shoot for Calvin's new line of dress wear_ ," the host is saying with a megawatt smile, gold microphone clutched tightly in his hand. A few candid shots of Harry leaving some resort in a tux fades in on the green screen behind him. Nick’s long, skinny leg is right behind. " _Rumors have it that he'll be touring all the biggest clubs and meeting up with some of the hottest people in the game; we won't be expecting him back in London for a few weeks. Maybe we'll get nice pap shots_." The guy adds in a cheesy little wink, and that's when Zayn remembers that Louis was raving about something with him over the phone yesterday just about Harry.  
  
Then Zayn remembers that Louis may need some comforting of his own, his own problems with Niall aside; he sounded pretty frazzled on the call, and Zayn did feel a little bad for brushing him off like that.  
  
So Zayn finishes his afternoon tea and snack and gets proper dressed to head over to Louis' job, bringing a gift of fries and a chicken basket from some tiny restaurant in Camden town; time to worry about somebody else for once, Zayn. If Niall doesn't call, he doesn't call, and Zayn shouldn't feel so heartbroken about that fact.  
  
Even though he’s heartbroken nonetheless.

 

 

 

❤♡❤♡❤♡

  
  
Priory Heights is a wide, low brick building with colors splashed on solely for the appeal of the children; Zayn pulls up into a parking spot by the glass double doors, looking in wonder at all the tiny, colorful handprints trailing across the brick and ending when wall turns into window. _Priory Heights_ is in caps right at the roof, big enough for anyone on the main road to see it properly when they speed by. The playground is off to the side, a gate separating it from the rest of the world. A _Please stay off the gate; trespassers will be prosecuted_ sign is chained to the white planks.  
  
Zayn walks through the front doors with the food and into a large lobby room, crayon statues hanging from the dome-like roof. The marble tiles are different combinations of red, green, blue, yellow, and purple; the receptionist desk dead ahead is covered in an assortment of arts and crafts made specifically for someone named ‘Mrs. Smith’. Zayn looks up and at a young woman behind the desk, finding Mrs. Smith.  
  
“Good afternoon,” he says, stepping up and onto the bear-themed rug just in front. “Where’s Mr. Tomlinson’s room today?”  
  
Mrs. Smith types at an old computer without looking up at him. “Are you here to pick up your child? I need name and identification, please.” She looks up at him over her thick, rectangular frames and then back down at the screen, but has to look back up at him, head jerking, and suddenly a big, bright smile spreads across her face. “Mr. Malik! It’s very . . . _very_ nice to see you again. Mr. Tomlinson is just in that back hall, room 127-A.”  
  
Zayn gives her a polite smile. “Thank you very much.” He gives the desk a small pat before sliding past it and finding the designated room in the thin, dimly-lit hallway. He tests the door, finding that its unlocked, and steps inside. He immediately comes face to face with a large, colorful room, full of toys and art activities and cheesy posters talking about the importance of personal hygiene and safety in the classroom.  
  
Zayn finds about seven children in the room, along with Louis crouching down by a small girl with a small, curly afro and big brown eyes. Another young woman is in there with him, reading a book to the rest in a very fake, exaggerated voice, smile spread large across her tiny face. Otherwise, the room is pretty quiet and smells like something sweet, like cakes, or perfume.  
  
“Lou,” Zayn says softly, walking up to Louis and watching as Louis wipes the small girl’s mouth with a napkin, catching some saliva and crumbs at the corners of her lips. “D’you have a minute, mate?”  
  
Louis looks up, shocked, into Zayn’s face. “I haven’t been expecting you,” he says, but in a pleasantly surprised, breathy way. He fingers his frazzled, stringy fringe and turns to look back at the girl, expression instantly softening when she catches his eye. “Go have story time with Mrs. Hall, okay? Go, go,” he gives the side of her arm a little pat, and the girl, smiling with all gums, runs off with her tiny legs towards the rest of the group.  
  
“Good with children as always, I see,” Zayn says, already making his way to the back room. Louis smiles, but says nothing and follows him into the room, closing the door behind them when they get in.  
  
It’s a dark, small room, with a fridge and a snacks machine, a table and a few chairs in the center. Louis flicks on the light switch, the bulbs flickering on and off before they remain on. His tired blue eyes lower to the bag in Zayn’s hand, and he immediately lights up at it. “You even brought me food? You’d make a good wife, yeah?” He laughs at that, dropping down into a chair and patting the spot beside him. “Come on, then; I’m starving.”  
  
“Don’t make me regret doing something nice for you,” Zayn huffs, doing as he was told and lowering himself in an adjacent chair. He hands Louis the bags, and Louis instantly pulls it open, taking out the packaged foods and examining it through the plastic covering.  
  
He raises an eyebrow at it. “Greasy, cheap food from some no-name store? You really went all the way for me.” Louis makes a face, but has no qualms with prying them open and shoving a few of the thin fries into his mouth, chewing obnoxiously.  
  
Zayn frowns. “That’s it; I’m never doing this again. It’s the thought that counts, and you apparently can’t seem to comprehend that.”  
  
“If you call this a thought,” Louis quips. He shakes his head at his own joke, smiling through the food while Zayn sends him metaphorical daggers with his stare, and then swallows. “I’m joking, mate; goddamn, take a joke every once in awhile.” He gets up and opens the fridge, looking for anything to drink. “I know being a professor is a life-sucking job, but at least pretend to have some soul left in that hollow chest of yours.”  
  
“Being a professor is very uplifting, thank you very much.” Zayn watches Louis get out a cold water bottle and settle back in front of his food. Louis still has an unshaven beard, messy and thickening, golden skin turning pale from lack of any proper sunlight. He’s dressed in just a plain three-quarters sleeve gray shirt, trousers, and some slip-on shoes that meet his job’s requirement for covering his small toes.  
  
Zayn can’t help but notice that Louis doesn’t look much like himself. There’s always a glint, _always_ , and Zayn’s able to find it when he’s cradling that camera of his in his tiny hands, thumbs brushing over the shutter and gaze fixated on a long, fit Harry.  
  
Louis can’t lie to himself anymore; he’s enamored with Harry. Absolutely and completely drowning in him; those photo albums of gangly limbs and bright eyes and big, midway smiles can’t hide it.  
  
Zayn knows about that small, terribly unplatonic photo of Harry — with his legs folded on Louis’ bedroom floor, head tipped back to look up at the camera, eyes halfway closed as lashes flutter and a big, goofy smile spread across red lips, dimples two big craters on each side of his face — always somewhere with Louis, just within his reach, so that when the distance between towns and countries and even oceans stretch his heavy heart too wide of a pull, he can find it and remember that Harry will always be home to make new memories.  
  
 _You’re in love_ , Zayn wants to say. _You’re in love so deep that the only way out is heartbreak_.  
  
Before he knows it, a hand reaches up and smooths Louis’ unwashed fringe back from his face, producing a forehead fading in color. Louis turns to look at him, mid bite, and his face is contorted in bewilderment and confusion before he sees the look on Zayn’s face; he just knows then, he knows, and Louis has to shake his head, blue eyes falling, and he removes Zayn’s hand from his hair.  
  
“It’s okay,” Louis says, voice shaking on the beginnings of a sob. But his face is still stern, emotionless, with no hint of tears on the way. “Harry falls in love a lot.” He picks at the burnt edges of his chicken strip and lets the bits flutter onto the paper wrapping. “We’ll go to a restaurant to just pick up some takeout, and he’ll start talking to the bird behind the cashier, making her laugh and pulling out those rubbish jokes of his. He falls in love with her before we even get our food.”  
  
Zayn’s jaw visibly clenches, eyes burning. “That’s not true. Harry just seems like a really friendly guy.”  
  
Louis smiles wryly, his appetite obviously subsiding. “No.” He looks Zayn dead in the eyes, his own composure slowly falling. “That’s just how Harry is. He has so much love to give that it’s impossible for him to just love one person. It’s okay, though; if Harry was any other way I don’t think I’d like him much.”  
  
Zayn leans slowly towards Louis, trying to remain in his line of sight. He brushes fingertips along the side of his face, teasing the small hairs at his hairline. “Don’t lie to yourself,” he whispers to him, voice so soft that it’s barely audible even in the quiet of the room. “It hurts really bad.”  
  
Louis’ wry smile turns to Zayn, and _now_ Zayn can see the tears staining his glassy blue eyes. He rolls his thin lips into his mouth for a minute, blinking rapidly to stop it all, just _stop_. “When you feel so dead anything makes you feel alive, right?”  
  
Now his face crumbles, and he has to duck his head away from Zayn, wiping furiously at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “It hurts, but at least I’m alive. I’m alive, and so is Harry, wherever he’s off to right now. So I'm okay."  
  
This, Zayn thinks as his arms wrap Louis in an embrace without telling them to, is what words on paper can’t convey, no matter how many tears are shed and stains each worn page.

 

 

 

❤♡❤♡❤♡

  
  
The only way to win is if we aren’t human. There are no amount of drugs, of vodka, of nights spent fucking a new girl or guy every hour of the hour, to master the skill of an emotionless being. Because, at the end of the day, we’ll tuck our knees up to our chests and cry for feeling. But we don’t want to feel, we don’t want to fall in love with the loveless, give hope to the hopeless, or, sometimes, even breathe the same air another is breathing.  
  
Zayn told himself to forget Niall. He even got Liam to tell him to forget Niall. He absorbed himself in grading novel analyses, went to bed early every night without his midnight chats, and took more pride in the night life, slipping quick little kisses to randoms in the clubs. But then he gets a call from Niall at one in the morning, a drunk, slurry Irish accent begging him to come pick him up by the side of some pub in Camden, and Zayn gets dressed so fucking fast that the journey up and to his closet and washroom is one big blur.  
  
“‘M sorry fer callin’ you at this time’a night,” he’s saying, sounding absolutely wrecked, and Zayn’s heart flips, because god he’ll do so much more for him; he really fucking would.  
  
Even through his haze of tired and sluggish muscles, Zayn manages to find Niall almost immediately. He's slipped away, back pressed up against a wall and knees wobbling as he fights to climb back up, face a deep red and eyes lost, lazy.  
  
Then he sees Zayn coming, and albeit he barely knows the guy, he immediately lights up, because regonizing _anyone_ when you're pissed is like a present on Christmas Eve.  
  
Zayn is already slipping off his blazer and wrapping it around Niall, come over with slight deja vu that Niall is, once again, drunk and coatless, shivering in the dropping London temperatures.  
  
"Hey, Za – yn –!" Niall says loopily, an extemely loose smile curling on his red face. He wraps his arms around Zayn's shoulders and blinks slowly at the older lad's throat. "Did I – I left those, yeah?"  
  
Zayn's face goes hot and, despite the fact that Niall was the one who left them, shrugs his scarf up and covers the nearly faded bites anyway. "Let's get you home, okay?" he says sternly, worry and adoration slipped in there, somewhere. "You really shouldn't be drinking alone, mate."  
  
Niall only hums, stumbling along as Zayn practically carries him back to the car. He's only known the bloke for maybe two, three days (only counting the moments they've spoken) and he's caught him drunk more than sober; it _should_ be a bad sign, but Zayn refuses to take it as such and gets him inside the passenger seat in one, droopy piece.  
  
The car ride is silent. Niall is awake, but he doesn't say much of anything, even as Zayn drags him to the front door of his tiny flat, fishes out his keys from his jean pockets, and gets them inside, kicking the door closed with the heel of his foot.  
  
The living room is just as it was when Zayn first saw it, he notices while dropping Niall onto the couch cushions, but the Harry Styles advertisement is gone – even from the floor. He guesses Niall expected him back sooner or later and got rid of it.  
  
But, then, _Niall expected him back_? Zayn, squinting in the dark, looks down at the younger lad's face, of which is already resting with its eyes screwed shut and mouth hanging open. He's well on his way to slumber. Zayn can't get the thought out of his mind that Niall probably, kinda, _maybe_ was expecting him back.  
  
 _Niall was expecting him back_. That's the only explanation; he even said he didn't get much visitors, so why would he not tack the poster back up when Zayn left? _Because he was expecting him back_.  
  
Zayn gets some tap water from the kitchen with shaky hands and drags Niall up and sitting by his forearm with a little force to get him to drink it. When Niall is more than half awake and takes the glass of water with an annoyed grumble, Zayn can't help but crouch down by the couch and watch, eyes already grown accustomed to the darkness.  
  
Some water dribbles down Niall's chin and wets the collar of his shirt, but it gets down, nonetheless. "Sorry," he slurs when Zayn takes the empty glass back from him. He pries his blue eyes open and focuses in on Zayn's. "Really."  
  
Zayn can't help but smile, no matter how tired, irritated, and annoyed he is about being up at one in the morning when he has to go to uni in a couple of hours, and he shakes his head, getting back up to his feet. "It's okay. Just get some rest." He's halfway to the kitchen when he pauses, looking back at the brown-blonde hairs sticking out from behind the back of the couch. "And," he calls to him. "If you remember tonight in the morning, give me a call. I . . . I wanna know if you're alright."  
  
Niall makes a soft little sound, slumping out of sight. Zayn's not sure if that's a decline or not; he'll just have to see in the morning.

 

 

 

❤♡❤♡❤♡

  
  
Zayn and Liam are up and about at about the same time in the morning; only difference is that Zayn is one step away from dying and coming back to life as a zombie, and Liam is bright-eyed and all smiles. "Good morning," Liam says chirpily to his flat mate, mug of coffee in his hand and formalwear on his tall, lean body.  
  
"Fuck off," Zayn mutters back, rubbing at the grey bags beneath his eyes. He slumps down onto the couch, taking a break from his long and treacherous walk from his bedroom to the living room, and lolls his head back onto a downy pillow, exhaling heavily.  
  
Liam raises an unphased eyebrow at him, eyeing the way his white knitted sweater is twisted on his body and his black slacks are half-way zipped and unhooked at the crotch. His dark hair has survived with only a few brushes, and his fringe is lazily pulled back, clipped with a few bobby pins. "Who pissed in your cereal today?"  
  
Zayn shoots Liam a red-outlined look, and then looks at the morning news on the telly again. "It was a long night; that's all."  
  
Liam nods, taking another sip from his mug. "Didn't get any sleep, then? 'S just unusual for you to be so unkempt in the mornings." He nudges Zayn's calf with his toes. "I'm usually the grumpy one, yeah?"  
  
Zayn just shrugs at that, remaining on the couch for a little while longer to regain his strength. He had no idea missing just a couple of hours of sleep could do this to him; even his midnight chats never fucked him up as bad as he feels now. He closes his eyes tightly for a moment, thinking over the night with much hope and anticipation spiking his nerves.  
  
Niall may have forgotten, but he didn't.  
  
"You know," Zayn starts, sitting up to look over the back of the couch at Liam, who is leaning back on the wall next to the kitchen door frame with his mug in hand. "I actually, um, _left_ last night. If you didn't hear."  
  
Liam looks from the TV to Zayn, eyes widening and lips thinning. "You left? Why?" And then they're just looking at each other, Zayn's face crumbling into a mix between guilt and mental pain. Liam's body tenses, eyebrows furrowing. "Don't tell me, Z . . . Don't you dare tell me."  
  
Zayn has nothing to offer.  
  
"I'm so sick of your shit, Zayn. So sick of it."  
  
Zayn winces. "Look – he called _me_ at one in the bloody morning, pissed and begging for my help; do you really expect me to just hang up on him?"  
  
Liam turns the palm of his free hand to face the roof, raising his arm in exasperation. "The bloke would've never called you if you hadn't given him your fucking number! It's _your_ fault the Irish drunkard is phoning you during ill times of the night; don't put the blame on him."  
  
Zayn doesn't know what to say to that, so, still wincing, he turns away, gets up, and slips by Liam and into the kitchen. He opens a cabinet, grabbing the final Mr. Kipling apple pie from the package, and bites furiously into it. But his stomach is twisting up and Liam's anger was both expected and unexpected and it's making him feel like shit.  
  
His flatmate follows him into the kitchen with that dumb frown still on his face. Zayn can feel his big brown eyes burning a hole in the back of his frizzy head. "What do you plan to do now, huh? You plan to keep getting up in the middle of the night to take care of hammered lads? Is this your new occupation?"  
  
"It's _not_ going to be constant," Zayn snaps back, trying to keep his voice leveled, but failing. He turns to look at Liam, challenging him with a frown back. "It's just this once. I even told him to call me so I can be sure he's okay; he was super apologetic about it all."  
  
"He's not going to call you," Liam says simply, leaning back on the counters. Zayn knows he's trying not to be mean about it – he just wants Zayn to know the truth so he won't get his feelings damaged – but it stings all the same. The only person he's told about Niall doesn't believe in it; hell, even _he_ doesn't really believe in it. So why the hell is he still trying? "And you know it, Zayn."  
  
Zayn's frown dissipates, making way for shame; he begins to turn away from Liam, raising the remaining apple pie to his mouth, but stops mid turn when his cell starts buzzing in his back pocket. Liam's head jerks from the direction of the living room to Zayn, and he's watching carefully now, wearily.  
  
"Who could that be so early in the morning," Zayn says as nonchalantly as he can, it sounding more like a statement than a question. He uses his free hand to find his cell, honey amber eyes very, very, _very_ slowly looking down at the caller ID with all this hope, all this anticipation, all these nerves filling inside of him. He can barely taste the food he's chewing.  
  
 _Unknown number_. There's still hope. A smidgen of hope. Zayn stares with wide eyes at the screen, feeling the buzz in his fingertips.  
  
"Well," Liam says calmly. "Why don't you answer it?"  
  
"'Course." Zayn hesitates before tapping the _ACCEPT_ button, and wearily presses the cell to his ear with a soft, "Hello?"  
  
There’s nothing for a couple of excruciating seconds before an Irish accent says back, softly, “Is this Zayn?”  
  
 _Holy shit_.  
  
Holy shit, holy crap, holy Mr. Kipling pies.  
  
The last one is stupid as fuck; Zayn pretends he never thought that.  
  
He looks at Liam with shock, and Liam masks his look instantly. “Yeah,” he says, turning slightly towards the cabinets and dropping his pie on the counter. “It’s Zayn. Niall?”  
  
“Niall,” the voice confirms. “I just . . . I’m sorry.”  
  
Zayn is so excited that he forgets to breathe — or speak — for a split moment. But then he remembers that Niall’s talking to him and grins goofily, breathing, “It’s okay. I’m just glad you called.” When he turns around Liam is shaking his head, disappointed, at him (And he can shut the fuck up, okay, because he was _wrong_ ; Niall called!), and then he sets his empty mug in the sink and slips out of the kitchen quietly. “How’re you feeling?”  
  
“Massive headache, mate,” Niall lets out a strained, pain-filled laugh. “But I’m well, thanks.”  
  
“That’s good.” And he means it. Completely means it.  
  
Zayn hears the closet room open and close, the rubber soles of shoes rubbing against the wood of the foyer. "I'm off," Liam shouts across the flat. "I hope all goes well." It's a semi-sarcastic remark, but Zayn absently decides that he'll take it before the front door twists open, and then shuts loudly.  
  
"Who was that?" Niall asks. His voice has a bit of a rasp to it.  
  
Zayn leaves his remaining cake on the counter and walks into the living room to retrieve his coat and briefcase. He presses the cell between his shoulder and ear while forcing his arms through the sleeves. "It's just my flatmate," he mummers. "No one important."  
  
Niall has to laugh, brief and low. "Well," he begins with a gentle breath. "I just called to let you know; I promise it won't happen again. I didn't . . . I really didn't mean to do that to you."  
  
Zayn buttons his coat up with a smile, all the tired gradually draining from his body. "It's really okay." There's a small pause before his mind really starts to think, pushing past the haze of the early morning rush and the lack of any proper sleep. He's at the door, getting his shoes on, when he says, "You can make it up t'me, if you want."  
  
"Make it up to you?"  
  
"A date, mate. Sometime this week, maybe?"  
  
Niall blatantly hesitates. There's rustling on the receiver, movement maybe, and then more quiet. Zayn's heartbeat starts to pick up, chest tightening, as he waits impatiently for a response, _any_ response. But then there's an audible sigh, more hesitation, movement, and then the hollow thud of something dropping; cliche, yeah, but it's probably Zayn's heart.  
  
"I don't know," Niall finally says. "I mean . . . I'm really not looking for a relationship, and I – "  
  
"Just one," Zayn tries, knowing he sounds desperate but not really caring at the moment. "Just one, and if you don't like it, we can cut it off. Or, or just be friends. I don't know – just – just anything's fine." He takes a deep breath when Niall doesn't speak fast enough, trying to calm his rattled nerves. He can feel his heartbeat thudding between his ears, and it's making him nervous, how nervous he _sounds_. "That night wasn't supposed to happen. I – I really just wanted to make it grow, make it happen, yeah? Not the way . . . not _that_ way. So I want to start over; make it right this time. At least give me that chance."  
  
More heavy breathing. Shuffling. That hollow thud. What the fuck is that thud noise?  
  
Then: "When're you picking me up." More like a statement than a question.  
  
Oh _yes_. _Fuck_ yes. Zayn stops mid reach for the doorknob and has to just _stand there_ , wondering if he heard correctly. "Really?"  
  
". . . Yeah. I just – it's just once, yeah?"  
  
"Yeah, yeah, just once," Zayn babbles. Just once.


End file.
